


What a Lovely Hallucination

by weepingsuccubus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Pre and Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 04:52:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15284088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingsuccubus/pseuds/weepingsuccubus
Summary: After Sherlock falls, John realized he may as well have followed him. Not only does the memory of Sherlock haunt him but so does Sherlock himself. Something happens and John believes he's lost the memory and the beautiful hallucination of his best friend but a couple months later the delusions return but they're different somehow... John is in for a big surprise.





	What a Lovely Hallucination

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic. Don't judge too harshly. I love feedback but be nice. I'm just a nerd who likes to write.

Chapter one

I remember when the things I worried about most were coming home from the clinic to a bag of fresh toes in the fridge, and the undeniable rejection I felt when I was left at a crime scene by the one and only Consulting detective. Although I had other worries such as my denial towards even uttering the word gay, other than to refute the idea that I even may be, and the very confusing pining I was doing for my flatmate and friend, a friend that “doesn’t have friends” and is “married to his work”, I never would have left. I don’t think I would have even had the ability to leave, but now he’s left me. Now when I think back on these problems, all I can do is wish to be back in that simpler time. A time where I could stare at Sherlock and hear his voice, a time where he’s not hurt, a time where I still had the chance to tell him that I loved him… No, that I was in love with him. 

If I had known what would happen, I would have told him. I would have told him that he had saved my life in every way imaginable. I would have screamed it from the rooftops and would have just been prepared for the inevitable rejection I would have so obviously faced, but it would have been worth it. It would have been worth it just so he knew how loved he truly was. It would have been worth it to just listen to his reply, a reply that most likely would have began with “How simple, John.” And ended with a comment on how disdainful he found sentiment to be, but at least he would have known. Now the only screaming from rooftops that was done was the shout from my dear friend telling me to stay where I was so I could watch him steal away his life. 

I will always remember the sound of him hitting the pavement. The sound of his skull cracking open, although for all I know, I may have imagined it. Maybe it stuck out to me because I didn’t hear a sound, and I should have, especially for the amount of blood Sherlock had running down his beautiful pale face. Every time I closed my eyes I would hear that sharp crack like a whip hitting concrete. I’m haunted by that sound, and now it seems I’m being haunted by Sherlock himself.

I haven’t told my therapist yet about him. That I can see him every time I open my eyes. I don’t really remember the first time it happened, the first time he appeared. I don’t think it came as a shock. I had probably forgotten that he was even gone, like I so often still do. Now I’m just used to him always being by my side. I think the first time I noticed he wasn’t real was when he had made a rude, snide comment about his headstone. It had clicked that no one had ever really been alive to comment on their own headstone. I haven’t mentioned it to her yet because I’m afraid of losing him. How silly, I’m absolutely terrified of losing the hallucination of my dead best friend. 

It’s been one year and 10 months since he died and I am still afraid of losing him. I only talk to Sherlock when I’m alone, of course. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was loony and put me on meds that would take him away from me. I only ever see him in our home anyway, in Baker Street. That’s why I haven’t left here. I can face all of the painful memories if I can pretend that he’s still alive. That he’s still here. 

Sometimes he’ll disappear for entire days. Those are what I call my “bad days”. The days that I sit curled up in Sherlock’s chair, absentmindedly sipping off of one of the many whiskey bottles I’ve hidden around the flat. I hate to imagine what Mrs. Hudson would think if she found one of them. I rarely ever leave the flat because of my “imaginary friend” so god knows how worried she is by now. She never comes round anymore anyway. It’s been weeks since she’s even attempted to rap her bony knuckles on our (my) door.

Even after these days devoid of happiness, he always comes back, which is why I didn’t panic when he was gone one day after I returned from a quick shopping trip to Tesco for more alcohol. He usually returned after a couple of days or so, but when more than a week had passed I felt lost and could feel myself slipping into an abyss that I didn’t think I could ever get out of. Every morning I would still comment on the morning paper, things he said he found trivial but I knew he secretly enjoyed, and I would await his response. I would wait for him to exclaim his boredom. I would wait to hear his violin play, although apparently my subconscious wasn’t advanced enough to truly capture his mesmerizing compositions anyway, But he never did. He was gone. Completely and utterly gone and every minute he didn’t stand behind me while I typed up old cases on my laptop and tell me how illiterate my last sentence was or every time I couldn’t turn around and see his beautifully perfect form, always clad in his favorite button-down, silk, dark purple shirt that the ‘vision him’ always wore, the worse I spiraled into the old feeling of depression.

Back when I had just been discharged from Afghanistan, I memorized the taste of metal my gun had, just by the sheer amount of times I had put it in my mouth. I was ready to die because I felt useless and alone and I thought I had lost any semblance of pride I had, but this was different. This time I was truly alone and I had lost my best friend. I have been depressed before, but I have never felt like this. It was so much worse because all I wanted was for it to end, for everything to just go away and take the pain with it, but I still had hope that he would return. That hope slowly started to dwindle and all I felt was an empty resoluteness. I was a man on a mission and my mission was to get drunk and numb myself as much as possible so that I could finally shoot my last bullet and swallow it.  
It was a rainy night when I finally decided to go through with it. It was Sherlock that hated clichés, not I. It was that night that I walked in the door, a bottle of whisky in one hand and a bottle of gin in the other, that I was stopped in my tracks. There he stood. For some reason my subconscious put two and two together and made him wet from the rain, but he also looked different. He stood tall as per usual but he was thin and pale and he was wearing his signature coat around his shoulders, collar suspiciously down for once. He was looking at me with such a strange expression. A look he usually only gave to me after he had made an experiment explode in the kitchen and he felt guilty about it. He looked at me as if he needed forgiveness, which of course imaginary friends can’t really do anything that needs forgiving. “You’re back” He startled at the sound of my voice as if he was expecting a different tone. His voice cracked as he quietly uttered the word “yes”. I shuffled past him into the kitchen to hide my newly bought alcohol, I hoped I wouldn’t have to get it out any time soon, and that was that. 

I didn’t go through with my plan, obviously, and everyday life continued. For some reason “he” would talk less and less and but he would always just look at me as if he was confused about who I was. I was getting more and more afraid. I was afraid that I was forgetting him. Maybe why he talked less is because I was forgetting his tone or forgetting how he sounded when he would rattle off his brilliant deductions. Maybe he was thinner because I was forgetting what his body actually looked like, maybe he was more pale because I was forgetting his beautiful cream colored skin. All I could do is hold on to him as tightly as I could. I would hold on to every memory I had ever had with him. With every minute of my time I was rewriting every one of our adventures over and over again just to make sure I didn’t forget any of the details.

One day Sherlock asked me what I was doing and why I was always typing or writing and I replied by saying “I’m just making sure I never forget”. Sherlock became eerily quiet and slowly trudged to his room without another word. After that incident, things started to return to normal. We would banter in the mornings and he would yell at my programs on the teli at night. It was still different and it felt a bit forced but I would have to remind myself every so often that it wasn’t real. That there was no way he could have returned from the dead, but I knew I would have to continue holding on to this last shred of him, or I would find myself following Sherlock off the side of St. Barts.  
Chapter 2  
Home. Home is all I could think of. Sometimes my mind palace just wasn’t enough and I knew that if I spent too much time giving into the delusions my mind palace produced, I would start to truly believe that I was with John, that I was home. 

The shackles on my wrists dug into my skin and I winced. I went so far deep into hiding that even Mycroft had lost me. I’m guessing he lost my coordinates somewhere between Serbia and Bulgaria. I’ve now somehow made my way up to Hungary after infiltrating one of Moriarty’s nests in Serbia. I thought I was safe here because I had no knowledge of Hungary even being one of the “hot” spots but I was wrong. I was only here a day when I was captured and stuffed in a car by two burly men in black suits with earpieces in, god how the cliché bores me.

Now I was in what can only be described as a dungeon. My hands were tied above my head and my face and upper body was smushed against a freezing and damp brick wall. My knees were becoming red from kneeling on the freezing concrete underneath me. I was shirtless and I could feel blood dripping down my back. Although I knew they were asking questions every time they came in wielding another torture tool, I was so far deep in my mind palace I didn’t even register If they were speaking English. It was more difficult when their only woman took her turn. She was very talented with a knife. Every time she came in to add new marks to my already, most likely, unrecognizable back, she would lean down and whisper soothing yet condescending words into my ear with every new gash she produced. By this point I didn’t think I was going to make it out alive. I didn’t think I would ever get to see John again. My dear sweet John. My soft and obliviously gorgeous John. 

My mission in Serbia was supposed to be my last one. I was supposed to be able to come home. Now I would never get to tell John. I would never get to tell him he was the only one who could make me care. The only one I could ever love. He’s probably been done grieving for me for a long time. I’m sure he was back to normal after a couple of weeks preceding my absence, and of course that’s for the best, but a part of me hopes he cared enough to still miss me at least a little. 

Just when I thought it was over and I was slowly losing consciousness due to lack of nourishment and blood loss, I heard the sound of gunfire and saw a bright light as the chamber door was cracked open. I saw the emblem for the British military and knew my brother had found me. My last thought before I passed out was of the color of Johns bright blue eyes.

 

The next thing I remember is the smell of alcohol mixed with the smell of upholstery that a plane exudes. I was lying on my stomach while someone poked and prodded at my back. I knew in that moment I was on Mycrofts personal plane and that we had won, that I was safe, but I wouldn’t truly feel safe until I arrived at Baker street, until I arrived to John.

I attempted to flip over onto my back to get up but my brothers snarky drawl abruptly stopped my movements. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, brother mine. You’ve already pulled your stitches quite a few times while you were out from all of the thrashing around you did.” I ran my eyes over his sitting form. His umbrella clasped between his fingers like a safety blanket. “I wasn’t aware that I was in need of stitches. Have you been stress eating Mycroft? It seems you’ve fallen off of your diet again. By the looks of it, it seems you’ve put on more than a few pounds.” I quipped hoping it would make him leave so I could rise. “Don’t deflect brother. It’s not a good look for you.” I narrowed my eyes. “How did you find me?” Mycroft rose and walked over to me. He bent to almost to my eye level where I lay. “I was always there beside you. You must have known Sherlock. I never lost track of you.” With that he straightened astutely as if he were the queen of England and strutted down the aisle out of sight.

As I shifted to get up, I took a deep sharp inhalation through my teeth that resounded through the silence around me. There was no denying that I was in immense pain but it was all worth it because John was safe and I would see him soon. It hit me that London was my next stop and that John would be there. I was finally going to be reunited with my dear friend John Watson and I couldn’t be more ecstatic.

I had pictured so many times what his reaction would be like once he found out I was alive. I have replayed it over and over in my mind. It was the only thing that kept me sane. At first he’ll be surprised and maybe a bit confused but then he will be so happy to see me he won’t have time to be angry that I was gone for two years and he’ll utter under his breath how brilliant I am and all will be the same again. Me and my blogger, side by side, against the world. But what if he isn’t happy? What if he’ll be mad that I lied to him? or worse, what if he’s forgotten all about me? These thoughts continue to churn in my head until Mycroft reappears to notify me that we have, in fact, arrived in London. I hear a soft pitter patter on the top of the jets metal roof. Of course I already knew what weather to expect upon landing. 

My senses were still elevated and I was startled yet again at the sound of my brothers voice. “You know you can’t just spring it on him that you’re somehow alive”. I wrinkle my brow in confusion. “I’m sure he will be absolutely pleased to see me. How has he been by the way?” I asked knowing that, of course, my brother had kept tabs on the former military doctor. “Well you see, he’s been a bit vulnerable since your…absence” Mycroft replied with a lift of his lip as if he had smelled something rancid. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific Mycroft” I said starting to get impatient. “He’s been drinking quite a lot and he’s rarely left your quaint little flat since the funeral. He was…terminated from his job at the clinic. I’ve since picked up the rent bill which it seems he hasn’t even noticed that bills still exist.” On the outside I managed to stay cool and calculating but on the inside I was filled with dread and worry. Maybe John really would be enraged at the sight of me. “John is a big boy. He can fend for himself” I said with conviction. 

Even if I am in danger of a good punching from John, I still need to see him. Mycroft looked at me knowingly, a look I’ve hated since we were kids. The only words he said after that were “Mmm, I see”. After that I exited the jet and found Mycrofts car waiting for me. Anthea was already in the seat next to mine tapping away on her phone. Anthea uttered 221b Baker Street without even taking a respite for her poor thumbs, and we were off. 

I couldn’t help but feel a kind of anxious excitement to finally be returning home after so many months away. When we finally arrived I didn’t even spare Anthea a glance or goodbye before gracefully stepping from the car and rushing to the door and tilting the knocker (force of habit) after entering the flat. I felt as if I was going off to war as I finally reached 221b. I turned the knob to find it open and pushed my way inside. There was more than 7 half empty cups of tea scattered about as well as newspapers littering the floor. There was an inch of dust on almost every surface of the house and the entire place reeked of booze and lacked the usual underlying alcohol smell that usually accompanied my experiments. All of this and there was no John in sight. 

Just as I had made my decision to sit and wait for his return, the door opened behind me. I flipped around faster than I even knew was possible and saw the face I had been waiting to see for two years. He had two bottles of what I assumed to be as alcohol clutched tightly in each hand. He had a bit of facial hair and black circles were noticeable under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept the entire time I had been gone and his oatmeal colored jumper was wrinkled and bunched up under his arms, but he was still the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. He looked startled for a moment but then a look of relief flashed across his eyes.

I was prepared to get on my knees and beg for his forgiveness and I was ready to face whatever punishment he thought necessary. What he said surprised me more than anything he ever could have. All he said was “You’re back” as if I had only just came back from a quick jaunt around the city, not like I had just been dead for two years. All my voice allowed me was a soft “yes”. I was sure that if I would have tried to say anything else, my voice would have failed me. John passed me to enter the kitchen, most likely to put away his bottles of liquor, and that was it. Everything was back to normal, or almost back to normal. 

I decided that John must be in shock at my reappearance so I decided to keep a low profile in the house and keep silent as much as I could. My times of dismembering Moriarty’s network took more of a toll on myself than I thought as well. Nightmares were becoming more and more prominent to where I was beginning to have them every night. 

I decided also to refrain from any cases as well as notifying Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade of my return until John was more like himself and we could continue our work. John was always on his laptop nowadays anyway. He had taken to looking intently at me between sentences as if he was afraid I was going to disappear any moment. It was a bit unnerving. 

One day I decided to ask him why he was always writing lately and he replied in a sad voice that he was “making sure he never forgot”. Did that mean he was planning on leaving and that he didn’t want to forget our adventures after he was gone? Possibly he really was angry with me and he was just waiting so he could move out and leave me behind. Perhaps I was boring him and I was doing the opposite of what I should have been doing. Either way I needed time to plan out my next move.

I got up and made my way to my room so I could figure out a way to make John Watson stay. If he wanted adventure I would give it to him. I would start tonight and act as if I never left. Tonight I will sit and yell at one of his ridiculous shows on the teli and then first thing tomorrow morning I will find us a case.

Chapter 3  
So turns out there was an error in my plan because Gary Lestrade, confusingly enough, kept ignoring my texts and when he didn’t he was telling me to piss off. He even had the audacity to ask who I was and why I would pull such a joke, even though he knows I’m not the kind of person to take pleasures in such things as “jokes”. 

Days passed of acting “normal” even though I was bored out of my mind. At least John seemed to be happy but every now and then we’d be laughing about something and his eyes would get glossy and a look of despair would pass over his beautiful features. I compared the looks he would get with other facial expressions that I had stored in my mind palace to try and see if I could get a peek into what he was thinking. They mirrored the expressions of those who had lost someone and were mourning. He looked like the family members of the victims in some of my cases. I tried to figure out if maybe John had lost someone he cared about during my absence but that was very unlikely and I like to think he would tell me if one of his family members or friends had passed away. John was probably just bored out of my mind like me. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures and I knew what I had to do. I had to call Lestrade. As the phone rang I was reminded of why I prefer texting. It was such a waste of time to call people. After it rang all the way through to voicemail, I hung up and called again. After the second ring, the gruff and angry voice of Lestrade reverberated through into my ear. “Who is this? This isn’t funny! Just stop contacting me.” I let out a deep annoyed sigh. Sometimes George could be so frustrating. “Gabe, you know who this is. I need a case. It’s of the utmost importance.” There was a long pause and the only other words spoken between us were a whispered “holy shit” from the end of the line and a beep that signified that the call had ended. I tossed my phone roughly on the couch and said a few expletives under my breath. John, who had taken up his writing yet again looked up from his laptop for the first time in three hours and raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Lestrade won’t give me a case” I whined. John let out a snort as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard and went back to his incessant typing. 

Just as I was about to resign to the fact that I would have to find a new hobby or pick back up cocaine, the door flew open and in spilled Lestrade looking for the life of him like he was lost in a forest and had just escaped, with a very confused Mrs. Hudson in tow. John jumped to his feet, his laptop crashing to the floor, making a very cringe worthy crack sound as it made impact. “What the bloody hell are you all doing barging into my home unannounced?” His question was left unanswered.

An uncomfortable and awkward silence filled the room for a beat as Lestrade was stood stalk still staring at me, his eyes wide and mouth agape as if he was looking at a ghost. The silence was broken by a deaf inducing scream coming from Mrs. Hudson. It would have been comical if it wasn’t so painful. After Mrs. Hudson lost her entire lung full of air, a silent “whump” came from behind me. I looked to see if John was just as put off by all of the over dramatization as I was when I saw that John was, for some unknown reason, on his knees clutching his chest like he was in pain. I was immediately concerned and went to go comfort John but after I had taken a few steps toward him, he looked up at me. 

The look on his face stopped me in my tracks. His eyes looked like he was begging me for something, like he had just been handed the thing he wants most in the word but he’s asking what he should be do with it. Like he’s asking “Why me? Why are you giving this to me?” Most of all he looks hurt and confused. His breaths are now coming in short little bursts like he’s forgotten somehow how to breathe. The question that passes his lips is barely audible but somehow louder than Mrs. Hudsons scream had been. It’s the question that changes everything and makes my stomach drop to my knees and makes my heart skip a beat. “You can see him too?”


End file.
